Exile in Paradise

There are days when I know that I live in Paradise. Others when I wonder whether I live in exile.

Today, for instance, is one of those days that makes a man glad he lives in Redwood country. We woke to our third consecutive clear day, the air crisp and chill, the clouds looming over the ocean a grayish white. Yes, the birds were singing and the wind snuck through the streets of my little neighborhood like it was trying not to wake us.

Last night I went to Eureka's Arts Night, where the little town opens its doors to artists and musicians and invites the rest of the county to drop in. In the space of an hour and a half I listened to a very good Irish band playing old folk tunes; a young man picking the guitar and singing original and tradional bluegrass in the cavernous Eureka theatre (made more cavernous by the absence of other audience members); a blues band playing in a too-small venue; an accordian player who danced to the Stray Cats' "Rock this Town" on a street corner; a Peruvian Indian band, complete with flutes; and a lovely young trio which sang in close harmony reminiscent of Crosby, Stills and Nash (two men and one woman, and they were fabulous). And for all of this I paid $10--and that was to buy a CD from the trio.

Adam, of course, took off for parts unknown as soon as we hit town, leaving me to my own devices. I love the music and the feel of Arts Alive, but I can't help feeling like I'm just visiting every time I walk the streets hearing the laughter of the couples and catching a glimpse of a group of friends talking happily. I guess I'm not as good at being alone as I thought I was.

If I was in LA would it be any different? Sure it would--there'd be no Arts Alive to get me out of the house.

Yes, I'm in that strange space where things are going OK in the practice--each week I get more calls and I've had two good months in a row--and my personal life, though quiet, is at least free of drama. Adam is going for his driver's license on Monday and he's fully confident he'll get it. Since the boy is a naturally cautious driver, I think he's right.

But of course, as soon as he's able to drive the Turtle himself (he calls the old 1995 Escort "the Hornet's Fury," as you know) I'll never see him again. I guess part of why I'm a bit sad these days is knowing that my best friend for the last 16 years is moving on and the best gift I can give him is t0o let him go and grow and eventually make his own life. But since I've been so involved in his life till now, almost to the exclusion of my own social life (I said almost), what do I do now?

The natural answer is, get out there and try to find yourself someone. Ah, if it were only that easy. Since I've been in Humboldt I actually have asked a few women out on a date. One actually let me take her to dinner, for about $150, only to tell me that she was not in the market for a boyfriend or even an occasional dinner date. That, my friends, is as far as I've gotten with the Humboldt women.

Part of it is me, of course. I exude this vibe of sadness and loneliness which is distinctively unattractive. I see some very nice women with some beasts, fat and smelly and rude and ugly, and wonder what secret these beasts know that I have never tumbled on to.

I keep telling myself that this is my chance to work on my soul. Oh, little soul, I tell myself; don't you want to find something better and deeper than a moment's affection? But then I hear the laughter of a woman on the street as she walks with her boyfriend and something stabs me deep in the side.

Sigh and double sigh. Yeah, you don't need to hear yet again about what a loser I am.

Anyway, I started with the exile. It's not just the lack of romance which makes me feel like I'm on some anthropological mission to observe the customs of the tribe of Humboldt. I seem to be completely out of place--but then, I seem to be out of place no matter where I go. Even when I worked for the OC Public Defender, which is the best law job I ever had, bar none, I felt like I was a useless appendage to that office culture.

I suppose, as my mentor Nik Venet often noted, there are some people who are uneasy guests in this life. Me, I always worry which towell I should be using. Whether I'm saying the right things. And when the host will finally tap me on the shoulder and say, "my friend, isn't it time you went home?"